Many years ago, when I was a young man, my mom told me a story from her childhood. It’s been so long that I don’t remember the context or what caused her to bring it up, but she told me she’d never told this story to anyone else. It was about the Stick Men. Of course, by that time I was hanging on every word. What followed was a general ghost story like the ones Grandpa tells, but it had some unusual additions. At the end I laughed and told her she’d dreamed it. She stood her ground and claimed it really happened. More than once. I’d never known my mother to lie to me about anything, so I chalked it up to “She believes it.”
We spoke of it once or twice over the next couple of decades. She said she wanted to write it down. While not highly educated, my mother was well read and held a professional job. She knew how to write. I encouraged her. After she died, I helped clean out her papers but never found any mention of the Stick Men.
Fast forward more years and I’ve discovered writing short stories. I was looking for inspiration for a story and thought about family myths. I wrote out a ghost story my grandfather liked to tell and it got accepted by a magazine. I decided to keep on down this road. My next try was The Stick Men. I wrote it just the way Mom told me, a simple spooky story, with the narrator running afoul of the ghosts at the end (obviously, Mom didn’t have that in her story, but this was fiction. I could say what I wanted.)
So I sent it around. Crickets. I wasn’t sure what the problem was. It was spooky, it was novel. Finally an anthology picked it up. Now I know publication is a waiting game, but a year went by and the anthology still hadn’t come out. I got an email from the editor about personal difficulties and then technical difficulties. At about a year and a half, I figured I’d put the story back into circulation. If anyone wanted it, I could just cancel with the anthology.
But rather than just toss the story back out there, I wanted to do some investigating into what was wrong with it. This is not an ad for critiquing software, but I had a popular one and some free credits for an in depth critique, so I pulled the trigger. I got several pages of commentary on where the story worked and a lot of info on where it didn’t. One of the biggest complaints was that I didn’t reveal what the Stick Men were. I don’t know what they were! Most likely the imaginings of a young girl. I put the complaint down to AI pedantics and rigid thinking. I mean the X-Files works and most of the time we didn’t know what the monsters were, and they kept us guessing about some of them for eleven seasons.
But I took a good look at the critique and set out repairing the story. I inserted a completely new middle section to put everything into context. I even came up with a reasonable explanation for what they were (well, reasonable is a relative term in horror tropes). I took all these changes to my writing group and got a crowd sourced critique. The finished product was twice as long but so much more than just a story of things that go bump in the night. It was a Southern gothic bonanza of murder, secrets, madness, and generational guilt. Flannery O’Connor would probably be proud.
This was a story I’d be happy to send around. Then I got the email that the anthology was a go, along with a copy of my original story for my review. Crap.
After some consideration I contacted the editor and asked if they had room for my longer version. I explained the differences. Unfortunately, they had no leeway. Then the editor made an offer. He said if I believed in my story then we’d make a deal. He would pull the story from the upcoming anthology, and give a similar length story the spot. Then he’d feature my story in next year’s anthology. I readily agreed. He said to send my story along on the regular submission form. “Don’t worry,” he wrote. “It’s already accepted.”
So when it comes out in 2026 I’ll give everybody a shout to check out my gothic tour de force.
Hey all. Issue 1095 of Bewildering Stories is out today (online only). It features my short story “Johnny’s Got a Gun” about three teenagers looking for mischief on Halloween night. They get more than they bargained for when they break into their high school which is temporarily closed due to a shooting. My usual brand of darkness ensues. You can find the story for free here: https://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue1095/blurb.html
Here are the most controversial works of the quarter, the ones on which the Review Editors’ opinions diverged significantly for one or more reasons. The titles are listed beginning with the hottest “potato” and proceeding in order. Nine of the titles appear among the Editors’ Choices. Challenge to the readers: why might any of these titles be on the list? Discussions are welcome and may appear in a future regular issue.
That song always brings a tear to my eyes. It makes me think of my oldest friend. Not age, but how long we’ve been friends. Going by simple age I have two friends who are tied at 94 years old. But I’m thinking of Wayne, who I’ve known my entire life. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.
Our great grandparents were siblings, our grandparents were first cousins, our dads were second cousins and best friends. They built their houses in our small community separated by about 200 yards. Wayne and I were born about a year apart so it was only natural that our families put us together. Whether through nature or nurture, it worked; we clicked. Where you saw one, you always saw the other. We were best friends, co-conspirators, partners in crime, whatever you want to call it. Growing up, I was in his house as much as mine and vice versa.
There was little to hold me to rural eastern NC so after high school I went off to college and Wayne joined the military. We kept in touch with letters, this being the days before the internet. After his tour he lived for awhile with his mother and I settled in a city a hundred miles away. I’d always stop in to see him when I visited family. It is amazing how within minutes we’d fall into the same old patterns, our friendship fitting like an old shoe. We’d talk about everything and nothing. Reminisce about the things we got away with and the times we got caught. We’d spend most of the time laughing.
I remember in May of 1979 he made the trip to visit me on his birthday. I was sharing a house with two other guys, but Wayne said he wanted to talk with me in private. We went outside and leaned against his car. He told me he had decided to give himself a 21st birthday present. He was coming out. Then he said, “I’m gay.” My first thought was, “And…?” This wasn’t exactly a news flash. I’d figured it out long before but knew he’d tell me when he was ready. Although the rural South 1979 wasn’t exactly flying Pride flags, it didn’t bother me. When I didn’t immediately say anything he took a defensive tone, “Are you going to drop me like everyone else has today?” I’m not sure what hurt more, that he thought I’d drop him or that so many apparently had.
I said, “You’re my friend and I love you. Nothing can change that.” Since he looked like he needed it, I pulled him into a hug. He clutched me tightly for a second, and pulled away with a sniff. He muttered, “It’s a sucky way to find out who your real friends are.” He said he’d lost many so-called friends with his admission that day, including his dick head brother. I assured him I’d always be his friend.
Wayne was a stubborn guy and went back to our rural community and lived proud and out loud. He forced people to see him. It may sound cliché, but he took a job with a florist. He had a flair for it and eventually opened his own shop. His artistry made him a success, and he was fully booked every holiday to custom decorate houses. I couldn’t have been more proud.
The little community where he lived was a dead zone for anything social for gay people. There was a gay club in the city where I live that he liked to frequent. He’d make the couple hour drive every weekend. He’d sometimes stop in to see me when he arrived in town or more often, just before he left. Late one Saturday night, after watching SNL I’d gone to bed, when I heard pounding on my door. Wayne was disheveled, red-eyed, and in a state of general distress. I got him some water and sat him on the couch to talk. He and the man he was seeing had a huge falling out and he felt lost. I helped him calm down and figure out his next steps. I offered him my couch to sleep on but he wanted to go and confront his friend. The next morning there was a note on my door that said they had worked it out, deciding to part and remain friends. The last line of the note touched me deeply. He said, “Thanks for being a friend when I needed one.” I can’t think of any greater compliment.
Time went on and life got in the way. Wayne and I saw less and less of each other. We kept in touch via email and Facebook. I’d stop by his house when I visited my family. The last time I talked with him was about a month before he died of a heart attack. He told me he was having health problems and had to quit working. Then a month later my aunt asked me had I heard he had passed away in his sleep. I was shocked into silence. I was a year older than him. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. We’d often joked we’d end up in the same rest home and race our wheelchairs.
Although I talked with him rarely, the opportunity was always there. Now that opportunity was gone. There were things I still wanted to say to him, memories I wanted to relive, laughs I wanted to share. But he was gone. Full stop. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that at the end of his life, we had reconnected again, and he knew I cared. And that’s what matters.
Wayne was no big Pride demonstrator or gay advocate. He simply lived his life the way he wanted and said fuck you to anyone who had a problem with it. He also inadvertently changed the minds of some of the people in our neighborhood. The boy they had known and loved all his life was gay, so maybe gay wasn’t that bad. My parents were virulent homophobes but he had an effect on them. They loved him dearly, he was part of our family. After she learned about him, my mother’s attitude changed and she was open to gay people. My dad was better at compartmentalizing. He could still hate all gays, but exempt Wayne as one of the few “good ones”. It fit well with his racism. I loved my dad but he was a product of a different time.
As June is Pride Month, I’ve thought about Wayne often. The adventures we shared are forever locked in my memory (where some need to remain out of sight). We lived, laughed, and loved. And that’s enough.
I don’t plan to make a habit of this, but thought I’d write my thoughts now the dust has settled from the first night of Dancing With The Stars. These thoughts are mine and no one else is to blame.
Golden Years
First off, only two dancers stunk up the place last night. Actually the term “dancers” is too liberal. And it was predictably the old guys. Reginald ValJohnson elicited my first OMG of the night. He was so bad. He mostly stood in one place and let Emma dance around him. Even the judges commented on his “compact salsa”. He reminded me of Grandpa at the wedding reception. Grandpa wondering where he left his cane.
Not to be outdone, Eric Roberts was even worse (at least by judges’ scores). He first off had trouble getting down the stairs. Then he proceeded to do a cha cha at half speed. Lacking anything good to say and not wanting to be rude, the judges concentrated on what an honor it was to have a bona fide star on the show. That kinda shit on all the other contestants, inferring that they aren’t stars (and they’re right). But it was a disaster for Eric.
No one was bumped last night but next week will feature a double elimination. I got a feeling I know who’s at the top of the list. These two gentlemen are ready for the nice parting gifts.
Tori Spelling didn’t exactly embarrass herself with the foxtrot but it was waaay clunky. And when she starts talking all I can hear is Valley Girl.
The Single Life
Bachelor Joey Graziadei kicked off the night with a credible cha cha. He was pigeon toed and flat footed but got that butt moving. Better than I expected. The Bachelorette Jenn Tan’s cha cha was basically inoffensive.
Sports Report
I really liked footballer Danny Amendola. But not his dancing. He was quiet, respectful, and tried hard. He even calls his mother “mama” like a good southern boy. You gotta love he picked for this theme song “A Bar Song” with the line “everybody at the bar getting tipsy.” Not exactly what I think of as a tango, but they made it work. I liked that he actually looked like he was leading, but the way he hunched it looked more like an attack. He should be good at paso doble, though. And Carry Ann was right that he needs to show more personality. People vote for personality as much as dance ability. And I want that blue jacket. https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=a+bar+song+shaboozey
Basketballer Dwight Howard elicited my first WTF of the night. The judges actually thought what he did was good? In what universe? He stomped around with his feet about five feet apart, jiving around like he was at a club. When he tried to stick in a salsa move to get the routine past the judges it was awkward and ungainly. A total mess. The height difference is ridiculous. I feel sorry for Daniella. I guess the judges were just dazzled by all the aerials. But that won’t be allowed on the strictly ballroom dances. He’s got great personality (too pious for my liking, but you do you), so I imagine the producers will keep him around for awhile. I’m ready for him to go.
I kinda love Ilona Maher (but I hate Alan’s buzz cut). She is just so authentic. She just reminds me of the line in the song This Is Me “I’m not afraid to be seen, I make no apology, this is me.” I applaud her as a role model for independent young women, and it’s sweet that she’s looking for her inner feminine side. She hasn’t found it yet, but I imagine she will. She’s brawnier than Alan and it seems he’s afraid she might break his arm if he pushes her too much. Her cha cha was a mess. Too much like stop action photography. Move, pose, move, pose. Now Alan just needs to get her to clean it up and put it together. She also needs to let us see more of that strong woman inside. I hope she’s around for awhile.
Stephen Nedoroscik’s dance ability wasn’t exactly a surprise. I mean, he’s a gymnast. And when they said he was going to do jive I was all in. I got that silly grin on my face from the first move and kept it all the way through. The most fun of the night and my favorite dance. The guy knows the meaning of throwing down. He should be in the finals. His score was robbery. Scandalous.
Surprises
Brooks Nader is a model who can actually dance. And damn, she’s all leg. I enjoyed their tango, but couldn’t tear my eyes off her legs. I was waiting for her to get them tangled up, but she worked it out (one knock kneed move). She’ll be around for awhile. And I hate Gleb’s buzz cut. What happened, did he and Alan lose a studio bet?
It’s a Small World
But not for Chandler Kinny. She swept to the top of the leader board last night in true Disney magic style. Great body control, great (long) legs and great smile. Technically the best dance of the night. And since she has the built in Disney vote, she’ll probably win this season. Can’t say I have a problem with that. The girl can work it.
And In Other News
I’ve often said Val could win DWTS dancing with a burlap bag. Well, he might have his chance to prove it with mortician/housewife Phaedra Parks. She’s no burlap bag, but not much going on in the dancing department. She seems to be trying to channel Neicy Nash (my favorite comedienne) but there’s static in the line. It doesn’t work for her. Instead of Neicy’s self-deprecation, Phaedra comes off as having a chip on her shoulder. And as Tamar Braxton found out to her dismay, that won’t come off well with the audience. Maybe it works on Real Housewives but I found it off-putting.
Crime and Punishment
I still say Anna Delvey should not be on the show. She claims she’s there for redemption, although one of her answers to “Why DWTS?” was “Why not?” Redemption comes with remorse for your sins and expressing it. Nowhere, either in the media or on the show has she shown the slightest bit of being sorry for what she did. She claims, “I served my time.” Technically, they let her out, but she was sentenced to 12 years and only served 3. And her worst comment was “I’ve re-invented myself many times.” Um, that’s kinda why she was in prison. As for her dancing, it looked like she was on quaaludes. No energy, no pizzazz and perhaps the worst flick ever. But I like her partner. Ezra finally got promoted from the JV team and seems so excited. He also nodded toward having to rehabilitate his partner’s reputation. He’s got his work cut out.
And Finally
What the hell was Julianne wearing. Looks like she sat down on a black box and got stuck.
A book went on sale this month with one of my stories in it. Go to my author site or just hop on Amazon and search for Black Sheep #11. It contains ten stories of speculative fiction, and man, some of the stories are weird.
My story is Worlds Away. I got the title from a Go-Go’s song. Yeah, I was a fanboy back in the day. Look at the cover of their album Beauty and the Beat and tell me what 25 year old guy wouldn’t be a fan. Like another story in the book, it’s based on the multiverse or many worlds theory. I was particularly excited when I heard that the James Webb telescope had picked up data that proved part of Stephen Hawking’s thoughts on the multiverse. It looks more and more like it’s real. I’m reminded of my favorite scene in Spider-Man Far from Home when villain Mysterio says he’s from another dimension. Spider-kid geeks out on the implications of the multiverse being real. Everyone stops and looks at him while babbles on for a moment. Then he stops and gives a sheepish “Sorry.” Mysterio tells him “Never apologize for being the smartest person in the room.” Advice to live by.
There appears to be nowhere you can get the story for free. But it’s cheap, only $2.99 for the Kindle version. Of course, you can pay more and get the hard copy. I think it’s worth it, but then, I’m partial. I’ve put the link below to my author site. Unfortunately, my story didn’t make the cover. I’m covered in “much, much more!”
I haven’t done a lot of original writing in the past few months. I’ve mostly edited my hopeful novel (still a work in progress) and continued revisions of “Shadow of Nosferatu”. I love Shadow and hope to get it published somewhere, someday. It’s got a cub reporter, vampires, and Nazis. Who could ask for anything more? If anyone wants to beta read it, just let me know. I’ve joined a local writers group (with actual published authors) and got some useful feedback on the first 1,000 words. I was talking about it in an online “writers lounge” and an editor I’d had passing words with asked to see the opening. He also gave me some good advice. He also said he’d love to ask for more, but he’s mired in editing two books at the moment. But words like that give me hope that I’m not just spitting into the wind. Also having 35 pieces (and counting) accepted for publication doesn’t hurt.
Speaking of…
I have 3 stories coming out so far in 2024. A very short piece, “The Session” (1600 words), will come out this month in TPT (Text, Power, Telling) magazine’s winter issue. It’s an online only wellness magazine. Their focus is healing from abuse. “The Session” is semi-autobiographical, based on my session with a counselor when I came face to face with my own sexual abuse as a child. It was a difficult piece to write and even more difficult to share. I’ve gotten better about saying it out loud to others when necessary. I’m also in a wonderful online support group.
In May, Black Sheep magazine will run my story “Worlds Away” (2600 words). It’s just a little story I dashed off one night while thinking about the possibilities of a multiverse. Apparently the Webb telescope has followed up on some of Hawking’s experiments and determined that an infinite number of universes is possible. The recent MCU installment, “Dr. Strange and the Multiverse of Madness” also takes off on it. I didn’t think my story was all that special, but Black Sheep snapped it up as soon as I sent it around.
Later this year “The Stick Men” (2790 words) will be out in From the Yonder 5. I’ve reworked the story a number of times trying to get it just right. It’s a very dark horror piece that came from a story my Mom told me. She said she saw the stick men when she was a girl. She was adamant it was real and said she was going to write about it. I don’t think she ever did, since I couldn’t find anything about it in her things after she died. It’s a pity. I would love to have had that as a reference for the story. I’m not sure exactly when From the Yonder will be out, but FTY3 and FTY4 came out in successive Junes, so I’m guessing June 2024.
As predictable as a swarm of locusts, that time of season is upon us again. Dancing With The Stars has returned, and this time, not just on Disney. Now that the dust has settled from the first night out, I thought I’d take a look at the mix of misbegotten miscreants they’ve assembled for this go round – a veritable motley crew of who’s who and who the hell are you?
Alfonso is okay, Julianne is very nice to look at, and oh, I have missed Bruno. He is just so deliciously dementedly disturbed.
To start with, three of the guys stunk up the ballroom on Tuesday night. In order from bad to worst they were Tyson with one OMG, Matt with two OMGs and Harry with a records setting three OMFGs.
Tyson is pretty enough and has a great body, but that goes along with being a model and a stripper. Which is part of what puzzles me. I’ve never seen the Chippendales perform, but I did see Magic Mike. There is an art to getting nekkid, a combination of sultry, slinky, sinuous and sinful moves much akin to dancing. Whitney even incorporated it into one of her routines. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG_QH4R1DA4
So what happened? He’s a total dud.
As for Matt, I thought grandpa had game. It made me smile. That’s what a comic does.
And as for Harry, that was so freaking bad. Possibly the worst dancer since Master P or Sean Spicer. He’s pretty, got a good bod and I like the English accent, but it takes a lot more than that. I liked Bruno’s comment that whenever Rylee let go he wandered around like a tourist looking for Times Square. And I’m still not sure what his notoriety is. Guess I’m outta touch with the 2020s.
Barry Williams and Alyson Hannagan fell into the category of “Whatever happened to…?”
I was never a Greg fan, I had more of a thing for Marcia. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. He surprised me, but I think age will limit him. And I remembered Alyson from American Pie. She still resembles her younger self (she was 25 when she made the move; now she’s 49, so basically half her life ago). Loved the faces she made, but her dance lacked energy.
Adrian. Football player.
Then there were Legs 1, Legs 2, and Legs 3. Lele gets the crown for the best legs. The top of her legs were at Alfonso’s navel. She looks kinda scary, though. Something about the makeup. But I loved the song and attitude. And Mira – those legs. Couldn’t take my eyes off them. The old gal can really work it.
Legs 3 is also a Bachelorette. Is there some franchise thing that every Bachelorette has to be on DWTS? They just show up like a bad penny. And for me, their crass commercialization of what’s supposed to be personal between two people has done more to damage marriage than any supposed issues with the LGBTQ+ population.
Mauricio says he’s from Real Housewives of some city. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think he plays a housewife. And what’s that about anyway? A show about doing the dishes, making the beds, laundry and cooking dinner? That’s what a real housewife does. Doesn’t sound that interesting to me. And he looks kinda shady.
I found it interesting that not a word was said about Britney when little sis was on. The producers couldn’t find an overgrown kid from the CW network fresh out of rehab so they got the next best thing. Maybe they were hoping she’d spontaneously combust like her sister. That would be a ratings bonanza. Her dance was tentative, but not awful. I believe she said she was basically trying not to vomit, so it was a win. Gotta love that attitude.
Who expected Jason Mraz to kill it? Musicians have historically done really well (Nicole Scherzinger) or really bad (Billy Ray Cyrus, Michael Bolton). Looks like he may make the former category.
I gotta say one of my favorites is Xochitl. You gotta have moxie to have a name like that and she’s so excitable. She’s young, unbreakable, and will do as she’s told. Val can win it with a burlap bag, so he’s bound to take her to the finals.
But the biggest and best surprise of the night was the show stopping finale. I have no idea what Vanderpump Rules is or why a person’s personal tragedy is fodder for those cretins. Personal should be private. But she went with it and had her life detonate in real time. But she seems to be taking Kelly Clarkson’s “What Doesn’t Kill You” to heart and came back swinging. And she hit it out of the park. The piece rated one loud “Dayum!” from me. A stellar performance. And I loved Pasha’s red jacket. But he forgot the shirt.
Predictions. The final will be Val and Xochitl, Pasha and Ariana, one or two of the Legs, and Jason Mraz.
Some of my earlier posts had wandered away so I collected them all and deposited them in the Other Writing file.
I got a rejection today that said, “Sorry but we don’t print YA fiction.” Ok, my characters were all teenagers, but the story was horror, not YA. There is a difference. But whatever. You may ask how I know what to send where. Or not. When I began this, I had no idea how it worked. I still may lack knowledge, but I’ve figured out some of it. Over the past five years I’ve picked up sources to find out what magazines and anthologies are actively seeking stories. I don’t usually tailor my stories for them, I write what I want and then when submissions open, I look around for something that matches. Some magazines will take just about anything, but if you pay attention you will find the type of story they prefer. Some sites are more specific. You’re not going to be successful sending a young adult romance to a horror magazine. Nor a slasher story to a magazine that prints literary fiction.
Sometimes a magazine or anthology will have a theme. They want all the stories to be about a certain idea, like the environment, or to have a specific item show up. Then there are the first line and last line types. There is a magazine site called The First Line. Each season they set up the first line for a story and everyone takes it from there. One I remember was “That afternoon we had to decide what to do with the body.” There is another place where they give you the last line of a story. I found that’s a little harder to work with. I find taking off from a writing prompt easier than starting cold and having to end up at a specific spot. But I did it.
Yellow Piece of Paper came from two different calls for submissions. An old-fashioned group called Thema put out this open call.
We’re reading submissions on three themes currently: To the Pond (deadline 1 March 2022); The Crumpled Yellow Paper (deadline 1 July 2022); and So THAT’s Why (deadline 1 November 2022). The premise (target theme) must be an integral part of the plot, not necessarily the central theme but not merely incidental.
I say old-fashioned because they didn’t accept emailed manuscripts. You had to actually send them a paper copy. I believe they are the only place I have ever sent a hard copy of a story.
At the same time, another site called The Last Line wanted submissions of stories with this last line: “The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti”. I had written a story on the crumpled yellow paper theme and realized this line would be an appropriate end to my story. I tacked it on and sent it in. I figured whoever contacted me first would get it, unless of course, both places rejected it.
Thema liked it so I contacted The Last Line to withdraw my submission. The anthology came out in June of this year. Unfortunately, it is available in hard copy only and only through their printing company. I asked could it be made available through Amazon but, alas, no.
I received my complimentary author’s copy and enjoyed reading other people’s take on a crumpled yellow piece of paper.
As an aside, shortly after writing this story, I was skiing and found a cell phone in the snow. I picked it up and my short story popped into my head, nearly causing me to have a panic attack. I kept it together long enough to get down to the base and gave it to the first liftie (chair lift operator) I saw. I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Once you read my story, you’ll understand why. Anyway, since I guess few of you will go through the time and expense of ordering a book from Thema, and since I retained the rights, I’m publishing it here. It’s one of my favorite stories. I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy it.
Yellow Piece of Paper
It was just lying there in the greenery. I almost walked by it. In fact, I would have if not for the crumpled piece of yellow paper. I was out enjoying a warm Tuesday afternoon in the local national forest and almost missed it. In hindsight, I wish I had.
It was innocent enough. Only a piece of trash just off the main trail. A little part of my mind self-righteously harrumphed at the unknown slob who had left his trash in our park. But then my better nature decided it was left accidentally, not as malicious litter.
I bent to pick it up, like a good citizen, when an errant beam of light filtered through the trees at that moment and gleamed at me from a clump of pink lady slipper wild orchids. Something shimmery was lying among the emerald leaves. A cell phone, sleek and black, hidden in the green. Without thinking, I stuffed the paper in my pocket and then picked up the phone. It was still shiny, so I knew it hadn’t been out there long. It was very modern looking, with a rigid plastic case and glass cover. A minimalist piece of work, I decided it was a man’s phone. My friend Julie would smack my arm and call me a patriarchal pig if I said it around her.
Picking it up had brought the screen to life. The little bars showed it had a connection even out in the national forest. My ancient model, little better than a flip phone, and had no reception there. The time and date came up, with a grid of nine dots and instructions to draw the unlock pattern. It showed 32% power. I guessed it had been lost for a day or so, not much longer. I stuck the phone in my other pocket and continued my hike.
When I got back to the parking lot, I looked around to see if there were others. I thought I could ask if they had lost a phone, even though it may have been there overnight. There were a few cars, but the only people I saw were two ladies ignoring each other and looking at their phones. I wasn’t sure what the lost and found procedure was and didn’t see any place to post a note. I remembered the piece of paper and pulled it out to throw in the trash bin. It was just a little folded over Post It note, grimy from the path. It looked like someone may have stepped on it.
Cretins. Why didn’t they pick it up? People have no sense of pride in this beautiful forest.
Out of curiosity, I unfolded the paper. It had numbers written on it, but I could make no sense of them.
35.874570, -78.752838
Did the phone and numbers go together? They weren’t phone numbers and would be a hell of a passcode. I unlocked my car and sat sideways in the seat, feet on the pavement, studying the piece of yellow paper. Maybe the web, I thought, but one look at my phone showed “no service”. Of course. Damn cheap phone. I brought up the calculator and added the numbers.
-42.878268
That told me nothing. I stuffed the paper back in my pocket. I was intrigued enough to pursue it later.
On the way home, I had a flash of brilliance. Coordinates! Longitude and latitude. Those were probably the location of something valuable. I might have a treasure map on my hands. But someone else was also looking for it. Either they lost it on their way into the woods, or more likely, they went there, found nothing, and lost the paper on the way out. I could really use a buried treasure. Between student loans, rent, and bills, some months I had to choose whether to feed me or feed my car.
My tiny third-floor apartment was stifling when I returned. I had to use the air conditioning sparingly. I loved my job working with handicapped kids and with my part-time library job it almost paid the bills. Mom helped by paying my cell phone bill and occasionally covering an unexpected expense. She always said we’d look back on this time someday and laugh. I was ready for that someday to come. I wanted to be able to afford nice things, like the cool phone I found.
I cranked on the A/C and sat on my sofa, cradling the phone in my hands. So cool and sleek, it just screamed expensive. Whoever lost it was probably frantic, or at least really pissed. I was pleased I’d be able to brighten their day once I figured out who the phone belonged to.
There ought to be an app that says, “this phone belongs to Joe Schmo, and this is how you find him.” I didn’t think there was such an app, though I could be wrong.
I tapped the phone, and the screen lit up again with the locked screen pattern. I thought for a minute and then ran my finger down the left side of the grid and then across the bottom in an L pattern. With a ping, the phone populated with dozens of colorful apps. Sweet. I would bet most people used that simple pattern to lock their phones. I swiped on the phone icon and found the owner’s contacts. Meaningless names. I could call them at random, asking if they knew anyone who’d lost a phone. But since the guy lost his phone, he might not have been able to let his friends know. I scrolled through the contacts to the I section but found no ICE or In Case of Emergency number. Then I tried the M section. There it was–Mom. Mom might not know which child had lost a phone, but she could narrow my search down considerably.
Smiling at my ingenuity, I pressed the icon to make the call. On the third ring, a deep yet gentle voice answered the call.
“Robbie, I see you’ve found your phone.”
“Um, no ma’am. My name is Chad Harris. I found this phone out in the national forest. Can you help me return it?”
“Oh, dear me. I’m sorry. I just assumed. Robbie’s been so upset he lost it. It’s quite an expensive phone.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
“Let me give you his email address and you can contact him. He’ll be so glad.” She rattled off his Gmail account. “It’s so kind of you to do this. I fear many people wouldn’t. Thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am. People can be mean. I’ll email him right now. Bye.”
Once I’d hung up, I went and fired up my old laptop, which was soon to be another victim of planned obsolescence. Windows had notified me they were no longer supporting my version of operating system. Just another attempt to wring more money from poor people like me.
After opening my browser, I drafted an email to Robert Brennan. I put “I HAVE YOUR PHONE” in the subject line, figuring that would grab his attention. I sent it off and then began working through my emails. Most of it was spam; amazing how many ways there are to enlarge my penis or get money from Nigeria. Just as I deleted the promise of a way to lose twenty pounds in two days, my computer clicked to alert me I had a new email. It was from Robert Brennan.
The guy said he was so relieved I’d found his phone and would like to pick it up as soon as possible. I responded with my address and told him I’d be there the rest of the day. He quickly replied that he lived about fifteen minutes away and was coming right over. Great. Good deed done.
Since I was on the web, I decided to see if the mystery numbers I’d found were coordinates. I entered a search for “longitude and latitude” and clicked on an app that would show the location of coordinates. Once my numbers were entered the app said the spot was in my local national forest. Bingo! They were coordinates, after all. I clicked on view and got an aerial shot of a rugged path I’d never been on. Should I go looking for whatever was at the coordinates? Why would someone hide something in the forest? Maybe it was mob money. Or drugs. I wondered if the area had booby traps or was under electronic surveillance. The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I would have to go, out of curiosity if nothing else. I just had to know.
Mom always said idle hands were the devil’s playground and those words were so true with me. With fifteen minutes to kill, I looked at the sleek phone sitting on my desk and felt my curiosity rise. I wondered what Robert Brennan looked like, what he found interesting, maybe what music he liked. A cell phone is like a private dossier on the personality, peculiarities, and peccadilloes of its owner. With only a slight twinge of guilt, I picked up the phone and swiped Gallery.
Robert Brennan must be a fan of nature, I decided. There was a group of pictures taken in a forested area. I recognized some of the landscape from the national forest just outside town. There were pictures of blooming trees and bushes, azaleas, a small group of pink lady slippers, that kind of thing. I swiped again and found what must have been a selfie. Robert was a young guy like me, not yet thirty. He had black hair and deep-set eyes. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. On some guys it looks stylish and on some it just looks like a bum coming off a three-day bender. Robert was the former, although the smile on his face wasn’t reflected in his bright blue eyes. For some reason, his eyes disturbed me. A bit too intense.
Swipe, swipe. More trees. Does this guy have no friends? I packed my dinky little phone full of pictures of me and my friends doing fun stuff. We didn’t have much money, but we knew how to live it up on the cheap. It looked like Robert just hung out in the woods.
Another swipe and I found a lady. A beautiful honey blond in shorts and a tee. She was slender, but with nice padding in all the right places. She reminded me of a sweet girl I knew in college. I smiled at the memory. There were several shots of her perusing a bodega I recognized as being downtown. There was something odd about the photos, though. Then it hit me. She wasn’t looking at the camera and these were full body shots taken from a distance. She didn’t know he was photographing her. Heat swept across my face at the realization. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed for her or angry at him. I swiped through and found more pictures of her window shopping downtown, in the same clothes, so it was the same day. All were from a distance. He had followed her. Crap. He’s a stalker. That was probably why he was so eager to get his phone back. Didn’t want anyone to find out he’s a pervert. My ears started burning, a sure sign I was mad. I was tempted to erase the pictures, but I could tell from the selfie that Robert was a big guy, and I didn’t want to tangle with him. I ignored the slight feeling of fear that this awful person was coming to my apartment. I’ll just give him the phone and get rid of him as soon as possible. I should have stopped there. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Famous last words.
I swiped again, and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Miss Honey Blond was lying on a floor, gagged, with her arms tied behind her, and her feet bound.
Oh my God! He’s got her tied up somewhere.
Her face was wet with tears and there was grime or bruising on her arms and forehead. She was looking at the camera, fear bright in her eyes. My heart rate spiked, and I nearly dropped the phone. Swipe. More pictures of her. Next, her arms were bound to her feet, causing her to arch her body in a way that looked painful. This guy’s a sadist. I gotta do something about this. But what? I used my free hand to wipe the sweat off my face. The A/C had cooled the room, but I was drenched and panting like I’d just run a race.
Swipe.
Oh, mother of God, no!
It was another picture from the forest. The focus was on a trench about four feet deep. At the bottom lay Miss Honey Blond, still bound, curled in a fetal ball, eyes closed. The next picture showed her covered with dirt except for her face. The next two pictures showed the trench filled, dirt patted down and finally leaves and twigs strewn across it.
Sweet Jesus. He killed her.
Suddenly I knew what was at 35.874570, -78.752838.
I dropped the phone on the desk as a pain skewered my heart. Gasping, I clutched my chest. I’m too young to have a freaking heart attack. I tried deep breaths until I felt in control again.
Oh my God. He’s a murderer! I gotta do something. Tell somebody.
Snatching up the phone, I dialed 911.
“Nine one one,” the operator said. “Please state your emergency?”
Suddenly panic-stricken, I couldn’t form words. I struggled to say, “Grrglem.”
“Can you speak? What’s the nature of your emergency?” The voice had gone from bored to concerned.
“I got… I got… there’s a murderer coming to my house.”
“Someone’s in your house?”
“No, no. He’s not here yet. He’s coming. I have evidence he killed somebody, and he’s coming to get it.”
“Sir, if you believe you may be in danger, I recommend you leave the area immediately.”
“Good idea,” I muttered, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that.
Knock knock knock
“He’s here!” I said into the phone, gasping in alarm.
“Remain calm, sir. Is there a backdoor you can use to get out?”
“No! It’s a crappy apartment that’s not up to code and ought to be condemned.” I sprang up from my desk and backed up to the wall farthest from the door, eyes wide.
Knock knock knock
“I’ve already dispatched the police,” the operator said. “I have your location as 110 Hillcrest Street, correct? They should be there within five minutes.”
“A lot can happen in five minutes. I can get killed in five minutes.” I squeaked the last word as my throat closed off and I began wheezing. Asthmatic hyperventilation sucks.
“Sir, make sure the door is locked, and then barricade yourself in the most secure room. Something like locking yourself in your bedroom and then getting in the closet. The police should be there before he gets to you. Hurry.” I jumped at her insistence that I hurry.
Knock knock knock.
“Hey, dude. You home? I told you I was coming over. Open up.”
I looked back at the door and almost threw up. The button on the doorknob was sideways, meaning it wasn’t locked. I froze in place.
Knock knock knock.
“Hey, guy. Let me in.” The knob slowly turned, and the door opened. Robert Brennan called, “Anybody home?” before spotting me. “Dude, why didn’t you answer the door?”
I didn’t bother trying to answer. I just gaped in horror. He looked much like his selfie. Unshaven, jeans, tee, and hiking boots. And there was dirt on his hands.
Crap. Maybe he was moving the body, afraid his phone might lead someone to the grave. That means there’s a ready-made hole in the woods for me. Shit!
I heard the tinny rattle of the 911 operator continuing to talk, even though I had lowered my hands. Brennan must have heard it also, for his eyes lowered to his phone.
“Who you calling on my phone? You better not be running up my bill. Hand it over.” He approached me, his movement breaking the spell. With a squeak of terror, I bolted for my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
“What the hell, dude. Give me my phone.” He was at the door, trying to push it open. The freaking lock had never worked.
I heard a siren in the distance and prayed to a God I didn’t believe in for strength.
“Open the freaking door, man. Give me my goddamn phone.”
With a mighty shove, the door swung open, and I was thrown back against the far wall. Brennan was through in an instant and pounced on me. I rolled on the floor feeling like a bear was mauling me. I tried to curl into a ball, cuddling the phone against my belly. If he got it he would kill me and erase the pictures.
“Help!” I screamed, hearing footsteps in my living room. Brennan froze and began trembling as if having a seizure. I peeked over my shoulder and saw the wires leading from his back to the police officer’s taser.
***
The police tossed Brennan’s unconscious body into a patrol car and headed off to the county jail. They treated me with more decorum and asked me to come down to make a statement. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t stop trembling in front of all the posturing, macho patrol officers.
At the station I sat with detectives Garza and Carlyle. They offered me a soda and asked me to tell them what happened. I told them my story of finding the paper and the phone. When I showed them the pictures on the phone they became more interested. And even more so when I gave them the paper with the coordinates. Another detective wandered by and looked over Garza’s shoulder.
“Nice looking girl,” Garza said. “It’s a shame if something’s happened to her. So you think he buried her at these coordinates?”
I nodded my head vigorously. I had been afraid they wouldn’t believe me.
“I don’t think she’s dead,” the unnamed detective said. “Otherwise, that’s the best-looking zombie I’ve ever seen.” He nodded toward the door where Miss Honey Blonde had just entered and was holding her large purse in front of her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide and glassy with unshed tears. There were no bruises on her face.
“Robbie called and said y’all arrested him. I want to bail him out. Who do I need to talk to?”
Maybe you can imagine my surprise, but if you can’t, well it was pretty epic. I inadvertently dropped a few F-bombs. It turned out she and Brennan were into weird bondage role playing. Kinky much?
Understandably, Brennan was unhappy with me; said I overreacted. The next thing I know he said he was charging me with holding stolen goods. What the fuck? I didn’t steal his phone. I was trying to return it. Things were getting out of hand, so I called Mom’s attorney friend. Friend is a relative term at two hundred fifty an hour. He told me not to worry. I could counter sue with trespassing and battery. He talked with Brennan’s guy. Five hundred dollars later everything was dropped, and we could all walk away. Just pile it on top of my student loans. I’ll be paying off my debts until the day I die.
***
Monday morning found me at my school’s admin area, hoping to see the principal. Without an appointment I’d probably have to slap a student to get an audience. But only the principal could okay an advance on my salary. I needed it to make a down payment to my attorney. Or maybe just take it and head west and never look back. That sounded like a more pleasant approach.
Emma, the secretary had always been friendly with me and told me to hang out and she’d get me in. I slouched onto a sofa, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I shoved my hands in my pockets prepared to sulk for however long it took to see the principal. My right hand felt a piece of paper in my pocket. Maybe an errant dollar I’d forgotten about. No, too small. I pulled it out and found the damn piece of yellow paper that got me into this mess. I glared at it, baring my teeth in ferocious anger. Looking around, I spied the shredder in the corner. With a measure of satisfaction in my eye I marched over to it, pressed the button and shoved in the offending piece of yellow. The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti.
The hard copies of my book came this week. Little Green Men is available in hard copy or Kindle on Amazon or at my author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/curtisbooks
The Kindle download is only 99¢. It’s about madness and mayhem on Mars. Give it a try. You might like it. And if you do, please leave a review.
My story, Little Green Men, is being released today by Water Dragon Press. It is a stand-alone booklet, available on Amazon for $.99. When I was shopping it around, an editor told me it was too long for his magazine, but deserved a volume all its own. Water Dragon apparently agreed. It’s long for a short story at over 9,000 words, but not quite a novella. The story of Earth’s first manned mission to Mars, it’s part science fiction, part horror, part thriller. I hope you’ll enjoy it.
LGM is officially my 30th piece of work accepted for publication. The 31st, Yellow Piece of Paper will be out on Thema in June.
Curtisstories 